Into the fire
by Guinevere81
Summary: Missing scene for 'the empty hearse'. When I watched this episode I couldn't help but wonder how John ended up with a cut on his head since he was drugged and then put in the fire, I figured something must have happened in between these two events so I got creative.


John stood outside 122B hesitating. His insides were in turmoil and he did not like it. He was happy that Sherlock was back, of course he was, but every time he saw the consulting detective he felt rage well up and he just wanted to hit something.

That was why he couldn't quite bring himself to enter the flat where he had once lived. He took a deep breath trying to summon the energy to face what lay beyond that blue door but was jolted out of his reveries by a man knocking hard into his shoulder.

"Excuse you!" he snapped and watched the man turn around, a blank look on his face. John swore inwardly, wondering if the man actually intended to fight him over the snide remark. He was about to apologise when he felt a sharp sting in his neck. Drugged, his mind registered as he struggled helplessly against the two men, his body betraying him as he succumbed to the drugs.

He came to slowly, lying on the floor of what appeared to be a normal flat. It would seem that he was alone from the stillness around him but he couldn't tell for sure. His body would not respond to his orders and his vision swam in and out of focus making him feel nauseous.

He must have been lying there for at least half an hour before his body would respond enough to allow him to sit up. It was hard to focus on anything but John knew that he needed a plan if he was going to get out of there. He grabbed onto the nearby table using it to drag himself to his feet where he stood swaying slightly. His legs felt like jelly and he leaned heavily on the table.

At that moment the door opened and one of the black clad men entered looking with a frown at John. "He's awake, bring another dose." He yelled into the next room and John felt a surge of adrenalin at the thought of being incapacitated again. Clearly it was now or never. He knew that as soon as the other thug entered the room and they were two against one he would stand no chance, especially in his weakened state.

The man in front of him approached, betraying no emotion and John took a deep breath launching himself toward him and landing a weak punch to the man's jaw. He knew as soon as he impacted that it had been a feeble attempt. It was not enough to fell the man but he did have the grace to look surprised. Without making a sound he grabbed John's arm twisting it painfully and forcing the smaller man to the ground. A swift kick to his stomach made John double over bringing his face low enough for the next kick to land squarely on his temple making stars dance in front of his face and the world tilt at an unnatural angle.

Floating between consciousness and unconsciousness John was only faintly aware of the other man entering the room and a needle being inserted in his neck for the second time that day. Once again he returned to oblivion.

The next time John woke he had been moved. He was outside, a cold breeze caressing his cheek. He tried to remember what had happened but his mind was wrapped in cotton wool, allowing him only vague snapshots of two men whom he could not identify. He tried to move, to get up and get away but his body refused to budge. They had drugged him, he remembered now and it was not a pleasant feeling.

He could hear sounds, laughter people talking, and was that a drum? He could tell that there were people nearby but he felt strangely isolated, unable to move or cry out. Seeing the world through a strange haze he gradually picked up on the varied assortment of junk surrounding him. Where was he and where had the two men gone?

He struggled desperately to move but to no avail, he could manage little more than a faint rocking motion and that effort left him panting with exhaustion. Frustration was grating against his numb mind and he thought of Sherlock, would he have figured out what had happened, was this somehow to do with one of their cases? It was so hard to focus on any one thought.

Firelight threw a warm glow in the small strange prison but it was not a nice kind of fire, not the comforting warmth of the grate at 221B. This was more threatening and John tried to yell, to beg whoever was thrusting it toward him to stop. Why would his voice not work?

As the wood around him slowly started to smoke he felt panic start to rise in his chest and then the light was removed as suddenly as it had appeared leaving him taking shallow breaths and trying not to inhale the offending air.

It was a relief to find the fire removed even despite the thin tendrils of smoke that rose and tickled John's lungs. It was almost a pleasant smell if it had not been so close. It smelled like campfires and comradeship, and that was when it dawned on John, the strange assortment of wooden materials all around him, he was in a bonfire.

Then he smelled something else, the sharp tang of gasoline as it splashed over the fire, splashes of it hitting him in the face making the side of his head sting mercilessly as it hit the cut to his temple. Oh, this was so very not good. He tried once again to move hearing himself grunt and finding the sound wonderfully satisfying as he realised that his vocal cords were actually somewhat cooperating.

Then the world was ablaze. Someone had lit the fire and John was going to burn. He twisted and screamed, finding that the words did actually come out with something resembling normal speech. "Help, help!" he gasped as adrenaline coursed through his body making it only faintly more mobile.

He could hear someone scream but did not think it was him, and then he heard someone yelling his name. Sparks flew around him and the air was filling with smoke as the crates stacked above him started to move away. It was a whirlwind of fire and small objects filling the air around him and then someone gripped him under the arms and he was being lifted up and away from the heat of the fire.

There it was again, a voice saying his name, no two voices, Mary… his mind filled in and then gloved hands were touching his face and there fuzzy in front of his barely focused eyes Sherlock. Their eyes reflected the worry that he himself had felt a second ago and all he wanted to do was grab onto them and never let go, touch them to reassure himself that this was real.

He could see Mary talking on the phone, fear still in her eyes, she was relating an address to someone and his confused mind slowly clicked into place, she was calling for help, of course she was… someone had just tried to have him burned to a crisp. He reached up weakly grabbing onto Sherlock's arm as he tried to sit up. No stay still John, help is on the way Sherlock ordered gently pushing him back down.

Ten minutes later, when the ambulance arrived, John had convinced Sherlock and Mary that he was in fact well enough to sit up, though he knew better than to try to stand. A huge crowd had gathered around them and he was feeling stupidly self-conscious.

Sherlock had positioned himself slightly behind John and was lending much needed support to help him sit upright and Mary was pressing a handkerchief that someone had produced for her against his aching head. The ambulance personnel came rushing over, efficient as always pressing an oxygen mask over his face and shining a light in his eyes, the usual orange blanket draped across his shoulders even though he was wrapped in a thick coat and had just been inside a fire and thus was hardly going to be cold.

That was how Lestrade found them when he threw himself out of the car and into the crowd, beginning to shout orders to Donovan and two of her colleagues to cordon off the crime scene. Lestrade leant down in front of John, concern in his eyes, "What happened?" he asked confusion mingling with worry. John started to pull the oxygen mask down in order to answer but Sherlock grabbed his hand preventing him.

"He was drugged, and put in a fire to die." Sherlock's voice was icy and Mary paled a little at his blunt explanation. "Took a bit of a beating too." He continued frowning at Lestrade's short intake of breath. John nodded his agreement and winced slightly as the paramedic applied a bandage to his head.

"Who was it?" Lestrade asked looking between Sherlock and John in bewilderment. "At least two assailants" Sherlock started but this time John really did manage to remove his mask and rasp out a hoarse "Didn't recognize them". "No hospital." He continued the latter said to the medic bringing over a foldup stretcher.

"That is not optional" quipped Lestrade at the same time that Sherlock let out a stern "Yes, hospital" and Mary grasped his hand and squeezed it. "Just let them check you out" she pleaded and John relented "Fine but I walk" he mumbled behind the mask struggling to stand up. Sherlock wrapped a slender arm around his friend's waist and John found himself leaning rather heavily against Sherlock's supporting grasp as he walked slowly and purposefully toward the waiting ambulance.

Sherlock supported his friend until he was seated in the ambulance tired eyes fixed on a space beyond Sherlock's back. Mary clambered in after them and the paramedics looked sternly between her and Sherlock. "Only one of you can ride along" said the older of the two medics.

For a second nothing happened and then John lifted a now de-gloved hand to touch Sherlock's forearm. I'll see you later" he stated simply as he locked, now distinctly more focused eyes with his recently returned best friend and realisation dawned on Sherlock. He was not going to get to go along, not this time, he had been replaced.

He retreated to where Lestrade was standing and they both watched in silence as the ambulance pulled out of the park. No blue lights, no sirens wailing, that was a good thing Sherlock deduced, it meant not too much harm had been done, this wasn't an emergency, so why did he feel so empty.

"So what the hell happened here tonight?" Lestrade looked over to where his colleagues were securing the crime scene and then back up at Sherlock who had what Lestrade could only describe as a pained expression on his furrowed brow. "I don't know" he said, frustration evident in his voice "but I am going to find out." And with that he was off coat flying behind him as he threw himself into the crime scene prepared to search it with a fine comb if that was what it took to find out what had happened to John, and why.


End file.
